From the Ashes
by Optimistically-Hopeless
Summary: America and England have a fight, and England leaves. But there's a plot against England; one that isn't found out about until it's too late. After the incident, things become more complicated than ever before. M for character death, angst and tragedy.
1. Loss

Hello my dear, all-too-kind readers! :D I've had this idea in my head for months, and I've only now gotten to the point of having it figured out enough to start writing it! Just… just a warning… This story is going to be sad. I think it might have a happy ending, but… I'm not completely sure right now. I'll try, but… but it's definitely going to be depressing. We'll get through it together! :D

So, I really hope that you like it! Enjoy, and please review!

x-x-x-x-x

"I hate you, dammit! I hate you!"

The words were spat from America's lips, his blue eyes furious and dark. He was taking ragged breaths from the argument that he and England were in, his light brown hair mussed and on end, his shoulders stiff and set at sharp angles. Not even a shred of remorse from the words said was apparent in his features, his fists balled up, his face determined.

England stood opposite of him, his face reddened from anger. He stood rigid, his expression confused as if the words were having a hard time processing in his mind. As it seemed that America's declaration of hatred finally processed through his brain, his face became a deeper shade of red. At first it seemed to be of rage, but as a rim of tears began to form it became apparent what the true cause of it was. His shoulders quaked slightly as he spoke. "Is that so?" he asked quietly. "Then would I be correct in assuming I should leave?"

For a fraction of a moment, America paused, looking as if he wanted to correct himself, wanted to apologize. But in a flash, anger returned to him. "You're a real fucking genius, aren't you?" he hissed. Violently, he pointed to the door, his blue eyes growing ever darker. "Go ahead. Get out. I can't stand looking at you anymore anyway. Do me a favor and get out of here before I vomit."

England stood still for a moment, his eyes slightly widening as they searched America's face as if looking for anything that said he didn't mean what he was saying. But America's features were absolute. The silence was deafening as he stood there for a while longer, as if hoping that the situation would reverse itself, as if everything could be settled. But both knew better than that.

"Fine," England spat. "I can't stand your voice any longer either." Before the American could say anything back, England turned abruptly and walked to the door. America didn't watch as the door opened and was slammed closed moments later. As the seconds ticked by, America was expecting the guilt to start flooding in like it always did after fights. But as he stood there, nothing came. He was so angry at that stupid idiot! Why did he always have to fight and try to make America in the wrong! America plopped down on his couch, gritting his teeth together. He wasn't wrong. If England didn't want to admit it, that was his own damn problem!

He wasn't going to apologize. He didn't have to if he was right.

Trying to calm himself down, he got back up with a growl and started walking in circles around his house. This had been one of the worst fights they'd ever had. But as he continued to walk around, he kept on becoming more surprised by how instant regret was not coming to him. A harsh smile crossed his lips. He wasn't going to apologize. If anyone had to, it was definitely going to be England. He just had to wait for the other to realize this.

Not knowing what else to do with his time, he retreated to his room to take a shower. He had nothing to worry about, seeing as he was in the right.

England, however, was having a much harder time with this. He had left America's house and had gotten to his car. For a while, he had been absolutely numb, almost as if his brain wasn't able to comprehend what had just happened. But all at once, it finally hit him. He pressed his forehead against the steering wheel as disgusting tears rolled down his face. He had been told to leave. America had said that he hated him, that he was ugly. Such horrible words hadn't been said to him in centuries. He had thought that they would never be said to him again, now that he was in a relationship with America. But instead, the words that had haunted him his whole life had come from his lover's mouth.

Taking deep breaths to try to calm himself, England stared forward into nothingness. He felt his heart in more pain than he thought imaginable, and knew instantly that he had nothing to apologize for. The words that America had said flashed through his head over and over again, every time feeling like he was being stabbed in the chest. He had no idea how America could say such horrid things to him. He wiped away his tears and he finally turned on his car and roughly put it into gear.

No, he had absolutely nothing to apologize for. As always, America was the one who was at fault. And he wasn't going to talk to him until America finally realized this.

Unable to stop himself, he looked down to his left hand, his eyes resting on the ring placed on his finger. Another blast of pain went through him, forcing him to blink away more tears. His lover—his damn _fiancé—_had just forced him out of the house. Anger flashed through him then, making his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. If America didn't learn to grow up and admit he was wrong, then this wasn't going to work. He had to realize this.

Keeping his eyes on the road, England pulled out his phone and when to his speed dial. He was going home. And he wasn't coming back until America apologized.

The number was dialed, and England put the phone to his ear. It rang a few times, but finally someone answered. "Good evening, Mister Kirkland," his receptionist answered, the man's British accent immediately making England feel sick with how much he missed his homeland. "What can I do for you, Sir?"

"I need a plane from New York to London," England answered, trying to keep his voice even, not wanting or needing someone to ask what was wrong. He just wanted to leave and try to forget any of this had happened.

The receptionist paused, the silence sounding thoughtful. England had met the man before, and knew that he could often sense when something was wrong. But thankfully, he also seemed to catch on that England didn't want to talk about what had happened. "When do you wish for it to be ready, Sir?"

"I'm heading to the airport right now," England answered. "Just get one prepared for me as soon as possible." He paused, then quickly added, "Please."

Another pause from his receptionist, but then he answered, "Right away, Sir." Good-byes were exchanged, then England hung up and threw the phone into the much too empty seat next to him. He already knew what he was going to do once he got home—walk in to his house, pull out his alcohol, and then drink until he could barely remember his own name. He needed to just forget everything, even if it was only for a few hours. He couldn't stand to live in reality for much longer.

He just hoped that everything would return to normal. Though, with America being as just stubborn as he himself was, he didn't get his hopes up too high.

x-x-x-x-x

"_Right away, Sir."_

The man listened to the conversation as it ended, hearing the click as one side hung up. He kept the earpiece next to his head as he listened to make sure nothing else was said, then placed it back down as it became evident that the conversation was over. Silently, he stood up from his seat, a small smile growing on his face. Finally, England was coming back. While he had been in America, with the Patriot Act and other such security nuisances, it would have been too risky to act. But now, after so long, he was coming home by himself.

Calmly, the man walked into his kitchen, humming a little tune to himself, listening to his own rhythmic steps against the tile below him. He looked to his counter as if looking for something very specific. His eyes wandered slowly, looking thoughtful and cautious. The smile on his lips grew as he reached his hand out, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of his butcher knife. The job wasn't going to be pretty or clean.

But it would be fun.

Oh, how he couldn't wait to see England when he got back in Europe. How he couldn't wait to greet him once he got home, maybe even chase him into a corner. Then, and only then—when the man who was always so strong and holier-than-thou, was full of fright and maybe even pleading—would he attack. He had to hold back a laugh at the very thought of his face as pain, anger and confusion shot across his features, then his skin becoming covered with his own blood as the knife plunged into him time and time again.

Weapon chosen, he left his kitchen and grabbed his keys. He had to be there in time to welcome England home, didn't he?

x-x-x-x-x

America left the shower, his hair wet and hanging down in front of his eyes. As he had let the water pour down on him, the guilt that had for so long avoided him had finally hit him when he remembered the ring on his finger. He had growled and nearly punched the wall—he stopped himself just in time though when he remembered what had happened last time he had punched a wall; England had been pissed off beyond all belief at the gaping hole in the wall. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the phone, thinking about calling him and apologizing. But, even though he felt guilty about what had happened, he was still upset.

Why did England have to be so stubborn? Why couldn't he have just given up and just said America was right? Why did he always have to try to prove that he was right, no matter what the cost?

America nearly slapped himself when he realized that what he had just described was the exact thing he had just done.

Even though he wanted to apologize—even though he now knew he was wrong—he decided not to call. England would want time to vent. He was also pretty sure that if he called now, England wouldn't answer, or he would tell him to go fuck himself. He laid down as he told himself that calling now wouldn't do anything to help the situation. He would call in the morning, hopefully when both of them had had enough time to think everything over.

He had all the time in the world to apologize.

Now calm about the decision he'd made, America close his eyes as he slowed his breathing. Everything would be fine in the morning.

x-x-x-x-x

England sat on the plane, watching as it flew over the Atlantic Ocean. From where he was, thousands of feet above it, it looked almost smooth, as if it was calm and motionless. But England, from his many years of pirating and being on ships on the sea, knew better. From far away, it would look serene, peaceful, maybe even trustworthy. But once you got in it, it would throw you back and forth, try to rip you to shreds, try to utterly destroy you. A sad smirk crossed his lips as he watched the water below him, clenching his right hand into a fist. The ocean was much like love, wasn't it? When looking at it from afar, it looked beautiful, wonderful, _easy_. But once you were in it, it became a roller coaster of emotions, throwing you to and fro, making you lose your bearings, making you reconsider everything you thought you understood and wondering, "Is it even worth the effort?"

At the moment, England didn't think that it was his effort anymore to try.

His mind thought back to when he and America had first met. He had been just a small boy, perfectly innocent and kind. England had been abused his whole life, used and hated by everyone he met. But when he had met America, that had changed. The boy loved him, followed him incessantly, and trusted him with everything he had. For a while, England had thought he had finally found someone who could love him unconditionally, who would always be there for him.

But 1776 proved to him that, like everyone else, America wanted nothing to do with him.

It had taken England so long to heal, so long to become normal again. He had had to bury himself in conquering, in battle, in anything to keep his mind off America. He couldn't bear to be without him. He had made little contact with him for a little over a century. But then the World Wars had brought them back together. With the Special Relationship, Churchill had forced England to be with America much more than he had wanted. But as the years had passed, America had become much different from when he was a small child. He still had that air of invincibility, that personality full of self-confidence. But he had become a good man. England could help but begin to fall for him.

And somehow, America had returned those feelings. They had become good friends at first, talking to each other when they were at meetings. Then they had started seeing each other after meetings. It had slowly progressed to where they had begun dating. They had had their fair share of problems before, but it had never been more than they could handle. After a few decades of simply dating, suddenly America had come late to a meeting and, in front of all of the countries of the world, asked for his hand in marriage. England remembered that day, and how many emotions had run through him at once. He had been scared, uncertain, even doubtful. But all of those feelings had been drowned out as he nearly felt his heart burst with happiness and unbelievable _hope_. He had smiled as he said "Yes, Alfred," and had the ring slipped on his finger. He, for once in his life, had hope that something in his life would finally go well.

But as always, he had been foolish to think that life would prove to be kind to him. He pressed his face against the cold window to ward off his tears.

He should have stopped trying to be happy a long time ago. It wasn't worth the effort any more. He glanced down at his watch to see that it was 9:30 PM New York time. He did the math in his head to determine that it was 2:30 in London right now. The flight was six hours long, meaning that he'd be home by 8:30 in the morning. He groaned as he realized that when he got home, it would already be morning. He closed his eyes as he let sleep take him over. For at least a few hours, he could escape reality. The only way left to keep his sanity now was to pretend that reality no longer existed.

As his consciousness slipped away, he just wished that things could go back to normal. But he knew better than to hope for such a hopeless wish that was never going to come true.

x-x-x-x-x

England always bragged about his former pirating days and how he was a force to be reckoned with. He always made himself sound so fierce and cunning and malicious. But as the man had watched England age through the centuries, the man had become docile, kinder, weaker. He had also become far more trusting than he had before, though he still came off rude to people.

But as the man crept around England's doorway, he smiled at how trusting and how oblivious England had become over the years. Unbeknownst to the Briton, he had been watched for quite some time now. Not that anyone had ever looked for this man. He had always kept hidden quite well, never being noticed—until it was too late that was. Still wandering around, the man suddenly smiled as he remembered a detail from when he had been watching the Brit one day. He backed up as he leaned over and gripped the corner of the doormat before the front door. The smile on his lips grew wider as he saw the glinting key show itself under some dust. He picked it up and placed it in the keyhole.

England should have known to be more cautious than this.

Not that he minded of course. This just made his plan even smoother than he had already been expecting it to be. Slowly he turned the handle, pushed the door forward and welcomed himself in.

He couldn't wait to see England when he got home. He was sure that the man could use some company.

x-x-x-x-x

Everything seemed to be a tired blur around England as he slowly walked down the street to his home. As usual, rain was pounding down from the sky, making his hair plaster itself to his face, his clothes becoming cold and heavy. But even as he got slowly chilled, he couldn't feel it. He ignored it. He ignored all feelings, emotional and physical. He planned to make himself even number with alcohol, hoping to make everything disappear. Maybe everything would be better after a few drinks. He looked down at his ring again, pain shooting through him once more. How could this have happened? Why couldn't things just resolve themselves?

Why did the people he love always have to hurt him?

Giving out a long sigh, he shoved his hand inside of his pocket, fishing for his keys. After a moment, he pulled them out and roughly shoved his house key into the keyhole and opened the door. He stepped in and closed the door behind him, not bothering to wipe his feet or take off his soaked coat. It took too much effort, and at this moment, he didn't care that much about keeping his house tidy. Not caring about much of anything anymore, he walked into his house, heading straight for his kitchen. He needed alcohol.

Making his head feel like splitting open, his shoes squeaked loudly against the tile floor. He glared down at his shoes as if his poisonous look would make the shoes think twice about making such foul sounds. But as he continued to walk, the squeaks seemed to become louder and louder. He balled up his fists, trying to keep himself from punching something. He took in a breath, holding it as he tried to relax. The last thing he needed was something to fix because of a surge of anger. He was about to release it when he suddenly felt a presence in the room.

He wasn't able to turn around to inspect it before he felt something cold press against his throat.

"Hello, England."

England stayed completely still, his body going rigid as all movement ceased. He let his eyes peer down, only to see a gloved hand holding a large knife, sharp edge pressed against his throat. His ears hurt from the strain as he listened for any clues as to figure out who this was. England knew that voice. He _knew_ it.

"Yes?" he answered calmly, trying to keep his breath level, even as his heart rate increased drastically.

The man behind him chuckled slightly, making England shiver involuntarily. "You're surprisingly calm for someone who could die with the flick of a wrist." As if to prove his point, he twitched his wrist almost infinitesimally, making England flinch as he felt the blade dig ever so slightly into the sensitive flesh of his throat. He grit his teeth, determined not to give a single noise. That's all this person wanted—a reaction.

"What do you want?" England said, surprising himself with how calm he sounded. His eyes flicked around silently, looking for something to use as a weapon. This person may have broken into his house, but he certainly wasn't going to let them scare him.

His calm slightly faltered as the man behind him chuckled. "You want to know what I want?" he asked softly, his breath hitting his ear. "I have a knife to your throat, and you're wondering what I want?" Against his will, a small gasp escaped England as the knife slid against his skin, feeling a small trickle of blood make its way down his throat. "I want to kill you, England."

Not able to think of anything else, England rammed his elbow back, feeling it crash into the man's ribs, feeling a definite snap as the man gasped and cursed in a foreign language. The knife slid from his throat, England holding back a cry as it sliced the skin. For a moment, he was horrified that it had succeeded in slitting his throat; but as he continued to breathe and carefully fingered the wound, he figured that it had cut deep enough to hurt like hell, but shallow enough to not hit anything vital. He turned to face the man.

But he turned around just in time to be stabbed in the chest.

It was a real shot of luck for the opposite man; somehow the angle and placement had made the blade able to slip gracefully between his ribs, plunging deep into his chest cavity. For a moment, everything froze, England unable to make anything out; not pain, not sound, not sight. Then everything came crashing back as he hacked up blood, feeling his muscles clench painfully around the blade. The knife was suddenly torn from his body, forcing England to release a small cry of pain as it ripped him apart even more. The knife then found itself sheathed in England's stomach, a blood soaked scream escaping England from the pain. After the knife was again removed, it hit him again. And again. And again. Finally England lost count of how many times it had impaled him as his vision started fading, the only thing he was able to hear being his own cries of pain.

Everything stopped. Nothing made sense, nothing was real, nothing existed. All England was aware of was the tile of his floor against his back, and feeling cold. He was cold, yet covered with warmth at the same time. His eyelids were heavy, but he forced them open, the simple action causing excruciating pain. Above him he saw his assailant. His murderer.

His murderer who he immediately recognized.

"You," England choked, his voice so faint, he could barely hear it himself.

Even as his vision continued to fade, he could see the smile on the other's face. That smile that once irritated him; that smile that now brought him fear.

"Good-bye, England," he chirped, his smile widening as he licked the blood—England's blood—off of his knife. "I'd usually finish you off, but I think that dying in a pool of your own blood would be well suited for you—that's what you did with so many others, isn't it?" Finally, the man turned away. England was unable to say anything as the man left him there, left him unable to do anything but lay there defenselessly.

He heard the sound of the door close, and everything went silent. All England could hear was his ragged breaths and the sound of his heart beat only becoming slower and slower.

He was going to die.

He was dying.

He was over.

Summoning all the strength left within his body, England dragged himself forward, tears trailing down his face from the pain and effort. Blood was trailed across the floor behind him from his several gaping wounds, and every few seconds England had to stop as he choked and heaved up blood. For nearly twenty minutes, he slowly crawled across the floor of his house, one thing in mind the whole time.

He couldn't die.

He refused to die.

Goddammit, he wasn't going to die!

More blood caught in his windpipe as he hacked it up, his whole body shaking with the violent coughs that made his throat raw. But he wasn't going to give in. He had so much he still needed to do. So many things he still could do in the world.

He couldn't leave America. Not like this.

x-x-x-x-x

Even though it was early in the morning, France was humming happily as he whisked away at some eggs. He winked at himself in the mirror, flashing himself a smile as he continued to work on his breakfast. He was about to pour the beaten eggs into the pan on his stovetop when he heard his phone ringing. He ended his little tune, looking to the general direction of the phone in the other room. Part of him wanted to ignore it, seeing as he was busy at the moment. But then he decided that he wouldn't mind having a bit of a conversation with someone while he prepared his glorious food. He quickly set the bowl of eggs down on the counter and strolled over to the phone. Perhaps it was Spain complaining about how Romano didn't return his feelings. Or perhaps it was Prussia having a fit about "West" kicking him out of the house again. But as he looked down at his caller ID, he was a little startled.

Why was Angleterre calling him?

Smiling brightly, he answered the phone, "_Bonjour, mon Angleterre_!" he said, hoping he sounded just as annoying as ever to his friend. "What brings you calling me at this—"

"_F-Francis…"_

France immediately ended his greeting, a small chill going through him at England's voice. It was choked, strained and desperate. Another chill when through him as he realized that his human name had been used. England hadn't called him Francis for decades; maybe even centuries. "Angleterre?" he said cautiously, feeling his chest tighten slightly. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

"_Francis,"_ England rasped, his breaths horrifyingly audible. _"Please… c…come here. I n-need help. I… God, it hurts. Please, fel—"_ His sentence was cut off as a horrible noise came through the phone. France froze as he realized that what he was hearing was England coughing. It sounded like screws or something metallic being thrown violently around in a blender. The coughs died out, and all that was left were sad choking sounds—sobbing sounds. _"P-p…lease…" _A few inaudible words were heard, but France didn't stay to try to decipher what he had said. Within three minutes, France left the house and was rushing to England's house.

x-x-x-x-x

Light forced its way through America's eyelids as he tried to close them tighter, letting out a groan as he tried to go back to sleep. He turned on his side to look at the clock, peering only through one eye to block out as much light as possible. He shot up though when he realized that he had slept in all the way until noon. He looked around the room, looking for England. Why the hell hadn't he woke him up? He did like to sleep in, but noon was way too late! He growled as he jumped out of bed to go look for the Brit and give him a piece of his mind. But then all of last night suddenly came back to him. He went from being angry to feeling like a piece of crap human who didn't deserve to live. He growled at himself as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He really had to apologize to England for all the crap he had said last night. He looked back at his bed, now feeling that it was too empty. He wondered how had he gotten to sleep, having his bed half empty.

He smiled though as he hoped that tonight, it would be full again. They had only been apart for fourteen hours, but he already missed his fiancé. He quickly rushed to the phone to apologize. He needed his Arthur by his side again. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to last much longer without the stuffy Brit's presence.

He dialed his number, walking around his house as he listened to the dial tone. He hoped that England wouldn't be too angry at him, and that he'd be willing to listen to him. He knew England could be stubborn, but he hoped that his heartfelt apology would fix everything.

The phone rang a few more times, but finally he heard the click as it was answered. "_Bonjour_?"

America cocked an eyebrow as he heard the French greeting and accent. What was France doing at England's house? A sudden surge of jealousy went through him as he thought of how England must have called him over for comfort or to vent to him. It wouldn't have been the first time.

Trying to keep calm and not cause a fight, America took in a quick breath and continued. "Hey, is Artie there? I needa talk to him."

There was a horrible pause on the other line, America unable to even hear a breath. America glared at the wall in front of him, trying to figure out the reasoning for the pause. "France?" he asked, tilting his head to the side as he listened for anything that might give him a clue as to what was going on.

"_No one's told you?"_ France asked quietly, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

"Told me what?" America asked. Something wasn't right. "Dude, seriously, what's up?"

France paused again, America beginning to get a little annoyed. He was about to ask again when France finally spoke. _"Mon dieu, America… I… I don't know if… How do I say it? Dieu…"_

"Just spit it out!" America complained, sounding harsher than he meant to. But he was starting to go from being irritated to being freaked out. What was going on? Why couldn't France just say whatever it was?

France paused once again. America waited. Finally, France spoke. _"Amérique … I'm so sorry. I… Arthur. He…"_ He paused again, and America was about to prod further when he finished the statement.

"_Arthur was murdered last night. Alfred.. Arthur's dead."_

x-x-x-x-x

If I hadn't been in public while I was writing this, I would have started crying. So don't think I did this happily. I hope that, even though it's depressing, you'll continue to read!

Please review!


	2. Blame

Thank you everyone! I'm glad that people like this, even though it's sad! I do have most of the plot figured out, so I'll try to keep updates frequent. I do have other stories going on though, so do forgive me if I don't update as much as you'd like.

I hope you enjoy the next chapter! Please review!

x-x-x-x-x

France hissed as he looked down at his hand, watching as the blood pooled around the fresh wound. He did the bare minimum to treat it, taking off his over jacket and wrapping it around his hand to stifle the bleeding. Once the blood was no longer visible for the moment—he could take care of it later—he returned his attention to the newly broken window of England's house.

He needed to get inside. Now.

France had known England for centuries—maybe even for a millennia or two. He was always stuffy and extremely stubborn even in the most dire of situations. For the countless years they had known each other, he had never known of one single occurrence when England had asked for help. He'd usually take advantage of people to make them help him, but he had never actually lowered his pride enough to _ask_ for it.

So when he had gotten that call pleading for help, France had been sure that he was hearing things. England, asking for help? No, that could never happen.

But as he realized that he was truly asking for help, he knew something was horribly wrong. Not only was he humbling himself to ask for assistance—which was something that France had never expected in a million years—but his condition sounded horrifying. His voice was harsh and strained and sounded like he could barely breathe. He had scarcely stayed to listen to the rest of what England had to say as he rushed to get out of his house to England's. He knew he had to get there as soon as possible.

He was relieved that his and England's homes were not far apart, making the trip not extremely long to travel. However, when he had gotten there, the doors were locked. He had tried every way he could think of to try to get through the doors, but it was impossible. There were no extra keys, no secret exits, no way at all to get into the house easily. From what he had hastily observed, the next best option was a window. He had broken through the glass by punching a rock through it, but as his hand had been flung forward with inertia, the broken glass had bombarded his hand, cutting it open. But he ignored it. His hand would get better in time. But if he didn't get to England in time, he'd never be able to forgive himself.

Hoping that the opening would be large enough, France crawled through the window, gritting his teeth as he felt the glass bite into his flesh, creating more wounds. But that didn't matter right now—England needed him.

After a few more moments of struggling, France was able to make it through the opening in the window, ignoring the fresh blood present from his efforts. Only taking a few seconds to catch his breath, he quickly continued on through the house, looking for any sign of the Briton.

He didn't have to look for very long.

The first thing he saw was a trail of blood.

His eyes widened at the sight, his throat closing off slightly. The trail wasn't small. It was long and wide—about torso wide. It was smeared across the floor, France horrified at the idea that England had had to drag himself when he had been bleeding such a substantial amount. France's stomach churned as his mind continued to wander—what had happened? How injured was he? How had he gotten injured in the first place?

Was he still even alive?

France hissed at himself, forcing his legs to continue walking as he followed the trail of blood. _No,_ France thought viciously to himself. _Angleterre is alive. Arthur is alive. He has to be. I won't let him die._

The longer France walked, the sicker he became. How far had England had to drag himself? The bloody trail seemed to go on forever, each step making France fall deeper and deeper into doubt. Could someone lose this much blood and get away with it? Did a person even have this much blood in their body?

A few more steps, and France reached a corner. Slowly, he rounded it and nearly felt his heart jump out of his chest through his throat.

England.

The smaller country was lying on the floor, the phone pulled down from its usual stand to the ground next to him. France couldn't tell what the color of his clothes were—they were too tainted with blood to tell their true color. Even his hair was tainted with the blood, his blond locks matted with the substance.

Slowly, unsure of what else to do, France took a few very cautious steps forward. "Arthur?"

No answer.

England had lost a lot of blood. He was just passed out. That's all that had happened. France would just have to walk over and shake the man awake. He could already hear his complaints of, _"Don't touch me, Frog."_ Telling himself this, France somehow was able to make himself take the last steps forward until he was standing above England.

"Arthur?" he tried again, his throat tightening with worry, the single word sounding strangled and like a pathetic squeak. From this angle, France became even more sickened by how bloodstained England was. He could now see little specks of the true green in his shirt, most of his clothing stained with blood. France took in another breath, but quickly regretted it—everything smelled of blood. Copper, iron, _death_. That's all he smelled; all that he tasted.

Summoning all his strength, France leaned over to take a closer look at him. He had to try to see what his condition was. He had to get him out of here. "Arth—"

His voice cut off as everything seemed to go silent, the only sounds audible being the blood pumping through his body.

England's eyes were open.

His once vibrant green eyes were glossy, only a dull green now. They were empty, cold, emotionless…

Lifeless.

Dead.

x-x-x-x-x

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

The word bounced around inside America's head, not making sense, not meaning anything. His mind blocked out the meaning of the word, trying to think of what else it could mean, because it certainly could not mean what he thought it did. Nothing like that could ever happen. It just couldn't. But as the seconds ticked by, finally the meaning unwillingly clicked—dead. England was dead. He had been killed. He wasn't alive. He had died. His voice with his soft, charming British accent was gone, his loving insults and rare and sincere laughter silenced; his beautiful green eyes that seemed to only truly sparkle for him were now closed from the world; his skin that was warm and welcoming, cold and white.

His caretaker; the love of his life; his best friend.

He was dead.

"_Am__é__rique?"_

France's voice brought America crashing back from his thoughts, his body rigid and icy. "W-what?" America said softly, his voice cracking as he suddenly noted that he was crying.

"_Are you…?"_ France's voice trailed off as he seemed to reconsider his question. _"Alfred… you…is… there anything I can do?"_

America paused as he stared at the wall in front of him, not able to control the buzzing thoughts in his mind. "Can… Can I call you back?" he asked, not even caring as he heard his voice crack once again.

"_Of course,"_ France answered. He continued to speak, but America didn't hear the words. He let him finish speaking, then grunted a farewell and hung up. Once the phone was out of his hand, he turned and just walked. He barely paid attention to where his legs were guiding him. Everything was numb. Everything was so horrifyingly numb.

He felt his legs cease moving below him, and his vision slowly began to work once more. His legs had brought him to his room. _Their_ room. Not taking another moment to think about it, he rushed over to England's side of the bed and grabbed up the sheets. He pressed them desperately against his face, trying to breathe him in. Did they still smell like him? Could he pretend that he was still here with him? But as he breathed them in, he couldn't smell anything of his lover. Not the smell of tea or scones or even just the smell of his skin. America's breath caught in his throat, feeling his chest clench painfully. Nothing of England was left. Not his smell, not his laughter, not his voice. As this hit him, all feeling came back to him. All of his feeling and memories.

He remembered first meeting England, having to crane his neck to see his big brother. How strange he had been back then. At first he had been made nervous by the Brit's behavior, but as he had watched him get so depressed at almost losing him to France, he couldn't help but go to him. Even back then, he had felt the need to protect him, to make sure he was okay, to just make sure that he was happy. He couldn't stand to see England upset.

He remembered growing up and always looking up to him, wanting to be just like his big brother. He loved how England carried himself, how he talked, how he moved, how he acted; he loved him. Everything England was, he loved it and wanted to be just like him.

He remembered watching England cry in the rain as he forced himself to walk away, hearing each of his choked sobs as he took step after step farther away from him. How he wanted to comfort his big brother; how he wanted to just make everything better. To take him up in his arms and hold him close until his tears ended and everything was like it used to be. But he couldn't do anything then. All he could do was walk away and hope that everything would one day be fixed.

He remembered as he grew as a country how he always watched England. He couldn't talk with him, but he watched as England drowned himself in war, trying to ignore anything that reminded him of America. He had felt so guilty about hurting him so severely, but he knew he had had to do it. He still only hoped for everything to be better one day; hoped that he would be able to be with his big brother one day again, only this time as equals.

He remembered when England's boss, Churchill, had made them best allies. Both had been worried about it at first, but England had changed since when he was younger. If nothing else, America only loved him even more than he had thought possible. It went from a brotherly love to something much more complicated—something much stronger than he had ever thought to be possible.

He remembered the first time England had looked at him as more than just a brother. America had felt like he was about to die from a heart attack at how those green eyes felt on him. They had looked at him not just to see him; they had seemed to look into the very depths of his soul—maybe even farther. He had wanted to embrace that feeling and never let it go; never let _him_ go.

He remembered when he and England had finally admitted having feelings for each other. He remembered how wonderful it had felt to finally be with England; to finally have him as his own. Finally, they were able to put their past behind them and look to the future with hope and bliss. At last, they were happy again, together.

He remembered the first night they had spent together. Everything had been a blur, yet so distinct. How England's body had felt, how they had called out each other's names, how they had felt each other's love so much they nearly suffocated from it. It had been the only experience America had ever had where he had literally thought it was possible to die from happiness. All of the joy and happiness and pleasure hadn't seemed like it would be able to be contained in him without making him burst. It was a feeling that was nigh on impossible to give justice with petty words alone.

He remembered when he had proposed. How England had been shocked, but somehow, beyond all of America's wildest dreams, said yes. He remembered slipping that ring onto his finger, taking him in his arms, and in front of all the other countries, kissing him, making sure that everyone knew just how much he loved this man. How much he would always love this man.

So many more memories ran through his head; so many that he became dizzy and nearly passed out. But more than anything, he remembered last night. Yelling at him, telling him how he hated him, telling him to leave.

He remembered not apologizing.

He remembered thinking he had all the time in the world to do so.

"No," he murmured, letting his knees fall to the floor. "No." He drew his hand from the sheets and buried his face in his hands. "No." His body shook with sobs as he fully realized what he had done. "NO!" He rocked back and forth as he screamed at himself, his body wracking with sobs and gasps. How could he have done this? How could he have done this to the one person he loved so desperately?

He had forced England to leave. He was the reason England had gone back to his home. He was the reason England had gone to his death.

He had killed England.

Very slowly, America pushed himself back up to his feet, still gasping for air through his sobs. Everything felt excruciatingly numb once again as he walked, nothing registering in his mind as the walls passed him by, his feet carrying him somewhere, not knowing or caring where their intended destination was. Did anything matter now? Nothing he did now was going to change what had happened. England was dead. He had sent his lover to his death. It was his fault England was dead. He could have prevented this from happening.

But he hadn't.

America's eyes registered that he was in his bathroom, his mind finally focusing on what he was doing. Looking down to his hands, he was shocked to see a small knife in his grasp. He looked at it curiously, wondering why he had picked it up. As he looked at it, everything seemed to become even more numb than before. His emotions were numb, his mind was numb. Then he wondered; what else was numb? He drew the knife across his arm, watching as it gently split the skin, blood beading up from the wound.

He could barely feel it.

He wanted to feel it.

He _needed_ to feel it.

He cut himself again. And again. And again.

He deserved to feel pain. He didn't deserve to ever feel happy again. He had killed England. The whole tragedy was his fault. He deserved this.

He wished that he could die too.

x-x-x-x-x

A few hours had passed, and Alfred hadn't called him back yet. France sat in the same place he had been all day, unable to remove himself from Arthur's house. The law enforcement hadn't minded, seeing as France was the one who had found Arthur, and was a well-known friend. But as he continued to sit there, he knew that he would have to leave soon—the police needed to investigate, and more than anything, he wanted to know who had done this to Arthur. To his Angleterre.

With a sigh, he forced himself to stand up once again, heading towards the phone in the other room. Not the phone that England had used his dying moments to call him for help.

Barely paying attention to what he was doing, he dialed a number and put the phone to his ear. He stood there for a few moments as the phone rang. Thankfully, he heard a click as the other line picked up. "Eh, hello?" answered the country on the other line. He almost sounded frantic. But as France thought about it, he understood why—the caller ID.

"Bonjour, mon Canada," he greeted, already feeling more of his peace of mind disappear from himself. "How are you… managing?"

There was a pause between them—a pause that spoke for itself. "I… I'm… I'm okay," Matthew answered, his words slower and much more somber than usual. "I… well… How's Alfred? Do you know?"

France gave a sigh. "That's why I was calling you," he answered, forcing his blond hair back from his face in worry. "I called him and… and told him. He told me he would call me back, but it has been a few hours, and I haven't heard another word from him. It's making me very worried." He stared down at the floor, feeling his chest tighten in worry. "I do not want him to do something stupid. But I know he must be in a lot of pain right now."

There was a silence between them as if the atmosphere made thoughts and words harder to process than ever. Finally, Canada responded, "I'll go check on him. Is that what you wanted?"

France gave a small smile. "_Oui._ I would go check myself, but I'm still in Europe. And…" He paused, trying to force his voice to not crack. "I… I don't… I can't leave Arthur yet. He's too… I can't…"

"I know," Canada said softly. "I know how important he was… is to you."

Quickly, France brushed at his eyes, making sure that they remained dry. "_Merci_," he answered, a small smile on his face. "_Merci beaucoup, mon Canada._"

He could hear Canada's smile through the phone even though they were thousands of miles apart. "You're welcome, Francis."

They said their farewells, and France finally hung up the phone. He stood still for a moment, feeling hundreds of emotions running through him at once. But even as he fought them, he eventually found himself with his back pressed against the wall as he slid down and finally let his tears escape him.

His baby brother was gone. His little Arthur was dead because he had been too slow. As he choked on tears, he hoped to God that he wouldn't ever have to lose someone like this again. He didn't think he could bear it. And he hoped to God that he wouldn't have to lose both Arthur and precious America in one day.

If they both died, he figured he might as well just kill himself as well.

x-x-x-x-x

Canada slammed the car door shut behind him, taking a deep breath as he looked up to America's house. He still felt numb from the news of England's death, but a dull edge of anxiety continued to stab at him, making him feel physically ill. His mind told him to walk forward, but his shaky legs refused to move. He had hated being ignored for all of this time, and had always wished that he had been included in the group. But now that he had finally been remembered, he wished for more than anything that he had just once again been forgotten.

Forcing himself to take yet another deep breath, he moved his legs forward. He needed to see Alfred. Out of everyone, he was sure that it was he that was suffering the worst.

Fishing in his pocket, Canada found the spare key that America had given him for when he had ever wanted to visit. He had never really used it before, seeing as America was often busy with other things, or even forgot about him completely. But he was glad that he had it now. Slowly and carefully, he inserted it into the keyhole and twisted it. He heard the click of the door unlocking, then opened it and pushed it to the side.

Stepping foot into the house, Canada immediately knew something was wrong. He had been to America's house only a few times, but he knew from those very few times that the American's house was never quiet. America was one of those people who hated even the thought of silence, and always needed to have something going on in the background. The only times Canada could remember the house being this silent was Pearl Harbor and 9/11. He felt chills creep up his spine as the sound of absolute stillness became nearly deafening. This was wrong—completely and utterly _wrong_.

"America?" his soft voice called. Even with his frail voice, he felt like it was piercingly loud in the silence. He felt himself shiver from fear and anxiety. He had no idea what to expect but the worst. "Alfred!"

The farther he went into the house, the sicker he began to feel. The air felt heavy, and everything was too peaceful to be safe. The house reminded him of a ghost town—it felt empty and abandoned, yet nothing had been disturbed. It was as if Alfred had just left everything behind. As he continued to wander through the house, he began to worry that this is what had happened—that he had just come to an empty house.

But as he got farther, he felt his blood chill as his theory was disproven. His feet stilled as his ears picked up on the sound of singing.

"_London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…_"

Listening closer, he could hear that it was coming from above him. Feeling his heart in his throat, he frantically walked around the house, looking for the staircase. After a few moments of desperate search, he propelled himself up the stairs.

"_London Bridge is falling down, my dear Arthur…"_

Nearly tripping over the top step, Canada stopped for a moment, trying to listen to the sound over his rapid breathing and heartbeat. Before he could get his breathing back to normal, he turned his body to the left to where the sound was emanating from.

"_London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…"_

"Alfred!" he called, running down the hall towards the sound of his voice. America had to hear him—why wasn't he answering?

"_London Bridge is falling down, because of me…"_

He burst into a room, and found himself in Alfred's bedroom. Alfred _and Arthur's_ bedroom. Quickly looking around the room for any sign of his brother, he saw the bed, its sheets disheveled and tossed carelessly across the mattress. He shifted his gaze over to the next door, light flooding from it, along with the sound of singing.

"_London Bridge is dead and gone, dead and gone, dead and gone…"_

Carefully, excruciatingly slowly, Canada walked towards the door, towards the sound of America's voice.

"_London Bridge is dead and gone, I should be too…"_

"Alfred…?" He peeked his way around the doorframe and peered into the room. The sight before him made him nearly act on his sickness and vomit.

On the floor, Alfred continued to sing his song, not even seeming to notice Canada's presence. In his hand was a small, bloody knife, and all over his arms, covering his flesh from his palms to his upper arms, were cuts and blood. Some looked minor and like small scratches from a branch or a small animal. Others looked like had had tried and failed to cut through his own tendons. His eyes were dazed, seeming unable to focus on anything. Canada felt his stomach lurch and slapped a hand to his mouth as he dry heaved. No wonder he hadn't heard him—he was in mental shock.

"Oh God," he gasped once he regained his breath. "Oh God." He nearly ran away to call for help until he realized that America was still dragging the knife through his skin.

"_London Bridge is falling…"_

"Alfred!"

Finally, Alfred seemed to realize that he wasn't alone anymore. He slowly raised his head, his mouth half open from his abruptly ended song. "M…Mattie?" he whispered, the knife stilling mid-cut. He seemed to want to say more, but he quickly looked away from him. Without another word, he continued to pull the knife through his skin.

"_Alfred!"_ Without giving any warning, Canada lunged towards him, grabbing onto the knife and pulling it away from him. Alfred grasped desperately at it, but he gasped out in pain as he tried to use his injured arms. Backing away from him as fast as he could, Canada threw the knife across the opposite room, feeling sick as he felt his own brother's blood on his hands. "What the hell, Alfred?" he cried, feeling himself begin to shake. He felt himself begin to descend into panic, but he held his ground. "What the hell are you doing?"

For a few moments, Alfred just yelled out nonsensical words as he seemed to be trying to get up. But halfway through his attempt, he fell back down to the floor, a pathetic sound escaping him. For a while, everything went back to silence as Canada stood, watching as Alfred laid still. But the silence once again ended as a strangled cry escaped Alfred's throat as his legs curled up to his chest. The cry turned into a horrible piercing scream, his body curling up tighter, Canada bringing his hands up to his ears, his eyes squeezing shut from the painful sound. "I killed him!" Alfred shrieked, his eyes clenched shut as tears rolled down his face. "I killed him! It's my fault! It's all my fault!"

All Canada was able to do for a few moments was just stare at the sight before him, unable to think of another time that the American had ever been so hurt like this. Slowly, he walked over to his brother, carefully lowering himself to his knees to be on the ground with him. Then, as gently as he could, he pulled Alfred onto his lap and brushed his hair back as he continued to sob. "I'm sorry," Canada said, unable to think of anything else to say. He knew that there were no words in any language that would be able to help him now. "I'm here, Al. I'm so sorry."

"Hate me."

Canada looked down at him, a confused look on his face. "What?"

Alfred turned his head, tears still flowing down his face. "Mattie… I killed him." He gasped for breath as a hand tightly gripped the hem of the Canadian's shirt. "W-we got into a fight last night… and… and I told him to leave. And I told him I hated him… and… and…" The rest of his words were garbled as he began to sob harder, burying his face in his brother's lap. Canada felt his heart break just looking down at him. Slowly, anger unfurled in his chest, wanting more than anything to punish the person who had done this to him—who had done this to his family.

"No," he said, continuing to stroke his hair. "No, Al. I'm not going to hate you. Never."

After a few minutes, the American seemed to cry himself to sleep as his breaths slowed down, and his garbled words faded away. Now that he was finally silent and still, Canada could see just how horrible a state his brother was in. He was horribly pale, blood on his clothes and slight blood smears on his face. His breaths were too shallow and shaky even in sleep. As he watched over his crumpled brother, his words echoed in his head, still haunting him. _"Hate me. I killed him."_ Even though he knew he couldn't change anything, all Canada wanted to do was hold Alfred close to him, protect him, help him feel better again. He wanted everything to go back to normal. But, as his heart clenched painfully, he knew that that would never happen. Things could never be the same again after this.

Still stroking his hair, Canada slowly reached into his pocket for his cell phone. The number already on speed dial, he selected it and put the phone to his ear. After three rings, France picked up. "_Matthieu?"_ France answered, his voice sounding unusually strained. _"Did you find him?"_

"Do you think you can get over to New York soon?" Canada asked, looking down at his brother as he spoke. "Alfred... he…"

"_Is he alive?"_

The question was so sudden and almost fierce that Canada felt himself flinch from the intensity. "Y-yes," he answered, gripping the phone a bit harder. "Yes, he's alive. But… Francis… he's hurt. He's hurt and he's just…" No word to describe America's current condition came to him; he wasn't even sure if there was a word to describe it accurately. "Francis… he needs both of us. Please."

For a few moments, it was silent, Canada still softly petting America's head. Finally, France replied, "_Oui. I'll head out now. I'll be there in a few hours."_

Canada nodded. "Thank you," he answered. The two said quick goodbyes, and then Canada hung up his phone and put it back in his pocket. He stared down at the American in his lap, and finally let his eyes wander to his arms. Nearly all of the skin was dyed red, some wounds still oozing blood onto the bathroom floor. If America had been a normal human, he most likely would be dead by now—to have that many cuts and so much lost blood. Along with that, he had been so distressed and seemingly nigh on delusional. He was truly just lucky he was a country; that he was still alive.

Slowly, Canada pushed him off of his lap so that he could stand. But he knew that the American wouldn't be sleeping for much longer. He quickly found Alfred's first aid kit and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

He didn't care if Alfred didn't want to be treated. He didn't care if we wanted to die.

Canada was not going to lose any more family. Not if he could help it.

x-x-x-x-x

Sorry for how long it took to update… writers block struck me for a while. Plus I keep on switching from writing Cabin Fever (a comedy) to writing this… it's starting to give me serious emotional whiplash. o.o

Anyways, please review! I'd greatly appreciate it! :)


	3. Comfort

Thank you so much for the reviews everyone! I'm glad that people like this story so far! I do have a huge majority of the plot figured out now, so writing shouldn't be a huge problem. It's just that being able to actually sit down and write is the issue. I've been busy, been having some drama and was sick for a week or so. Plus I have other stories going on, so I'm trying to keep everyone happy. So I hope you can understand—being a writer can just be frustrating sometimes! XD

Just a quick note about something I've been thinking about as I wrote this. I have known people who have cut themselves, and I mean no disrespect to them. I'm going off my own knowledge and understandings and trying to keep as true as possible. I just want people to know I mean absolutely no disrespect to people who have or have known people who have done this. And I have absolutely no issue with you telling me if I wrote something wrong. Feel free to tell me; I won't get angry or judge. I'd actually be thankful! I'm always open to opinions and corrections that will make my writing and storytelling better. And I know this is a touchy subject, and I don't want to offend anyone. So feel free to let me know!

Anyways, here's the next chapter! Please review! : )

x-x-x-x-x

Matthew woke up, quickly noticing two things. One, his head still ached horribly, light and sound making his head throb. And two, one of the sounds making his head hurt so was someone was knocking at the door. Giving a low groan, he slowly sat up, gently touching the left side of his face to check its condition. He flinched immediately at the contact, sharp pain shooting from his jaw to his temple. Solemnly, he grabbed the bag of now-melted ice from the coffee table and placed it against his face. He just hoped that he didn't look as bad as he felt.

Walking slowly as he tried to prevent himself from becoming dizzy, Matthew headed towards the door. As he saw the oddly blurry walls passing by, he suddenly remembered that he wasn't wearing his glasses. However, he then just as quickly remembered that he didn't have much choice in the matter. More knocking came from the door, the sound of it reverberating painfully in Matthew's head. He slightly quickened his pace just to make the sharp sound end. Once he made it to the door, he quickly unlocked and opened it.

Not much to his surprise, it was Francis who waited on the other side of the door. He had barely been looking at him for a second, and Matthew's heart already felt pained. There were dark shadows below his usually lovely blue eyes, his normally neat blond locks disheveled and unruly. He looked utterly tired and completely defeated.

In just about as much time it took Matthew to see how sad a condition Francis was in, Francis seemed very surprised to see him—or at least how he looked. "_Mon dieu_, what happened?" he asked, his blue eyes wide. "Your face…"

Matthew turned his head so the offended side of his face was pointed away from him, biting his lower lip nervously. "Um… it was my fault," he weakly said, gripping the cold pack harder to conceal the shaking of his hand. "Don't be angry at him, please…"

Francis made his way in the house, closing the door behind him. "What happened?" he asked once again, refusing to let the question drop.

Pressing the cold pack harder against his face, Matthew desperately wished for the evidence to simply disappear. "I… Well, America has wounds and he was really delusional. He… Well, he hit me, but he didn't mean it. I don't think he did."

Francis paused, not moving from where he stood. After a few moments, he walked closer to him, laying his hand on Matthew's own that held the cold pack. "He hit you?" he repeated, sounding shocked and, to Matthew's surprise, angry. Before the Canadian could stop him, he felt the cold pack removed from his face, a small whimper escaping him.

Francis went deadly quiet. Matthew couldn't dare look him in the eye as he felt rage pouring off of him. "Have you seen your face?" Francis asked, keeping a hold of the Canadian's hand to make sure he stopped hiding behind the bag.

"…N-no," Matthew whispered, looking ashamedly down at the floor. "I'd only just treated one arm when he hit me… B-but he only hit me once! He started crying when he realized he'd hurt me, and let me finish bandaging him with no problem after that." He paused, uncomfortable with how Francis was still leering so intensely at his face. "After I'd bandaged him, I… well, my head really started to hurt, so I decided to take a nap. B-besides… he, um… he broke my glasses when he hit me so... it's not like I can see that well anyway…"

Before he could add anything else, he felt himself being tugged away by his wrist, another small whimper escaping him. It seemed that Francis had been to Alfred's house before, because Matthew soon found the both of them in the bathroom, Francis pointing him towards the mirror. "Look at what he did," he hissed, holding him steadfastly by the shoulders.

Matthew silently looked into the mirror, squinting his eyes to focus better on the image. His reflection was still blurry to his impaired eyes, but he could see the purpling of the left side of his face. He couldn't see it well from where he was, but he could feel his cheek swollen up to the point where it fogged up some of his vision. "It was an accident," he mumbled helplessly, feeling tears come to his eyes. "He, he didn't mean to. I know he didn't. He's j-just scared." A tear spilled over, falling down his unhurt cheek. "Please… don't be angry at him. Please, Francis."

Before the tear could get any farther, Francis quickly wiped it away with a finger. "Shh," he cooed, moving to his side as he kissed his unscathed temple. "Calm down, _mon amour_. It is alright." He pecked his cheek, brushing his blond hair back. "I just hate to see you hurt, no matter who hit you." His lips brushed against the corner of the Canadian's mouth. "I… I don't need to see another one of my loved ones dead."

A small blush reached Matthew's cheeks, but he also felt incredibly sick. He had found out about Arthur's death through the news. People—countries—like him were never recognized as what they truly were, seeing as the mere thought of such a thing threw people up into mass confusion. Only the highest political leaders such as the Presidents, Prime Ministers and Majesties knew about such things. It was kept only to them because it would severely perplex the citizens of their country, and it would also put the personified nations in extreme danger of terrorists and such other extremists. Instead of assassins going after the political leaders to crush a nation, they would go after the literal nation itself. For the safety of the people and the nation itself, it was better for them to live in secrecy than to be known for what they were.

Because of this rule, Arthur Kirkland had been introduced simply as a secretary to the Prime Minister of Britain. But Matthew knew that name; knew of the dire importance of this event. Arthur, the personification of the United Kingdom, had been found dead in his house. The news report hadn't given any information on who had been the one to find him, but when Francis had called from Arthur's house, his question was answered. But he still didn't know all the details of Arthur's death. All he knew for certain was that his death was caused by foul play—but he had no idea how bad or disturbing the scene had been. Part of him hungered for information and desperately wanted to ask Francis what condition Arthur had been in. But just the thought of asking such a question made his stomach churn with guilt. It wasn't proper to ask a person how their life-long friend had died or how gruesome their death scene had been. He knew that if he truly wanted to find out, he'd have to ask through someone else. He couldn't stand to hurt Francis like that.

His thoughts were broken when he felt Francis's lips press against his neck just below his ear, a hand trailing across his hip. "F-Francis, no," he murmured, tilting himself away from his lips. "Please. Not here." He felt Francis's curious gaze on him, feeling the hurt from his reaction. With a somber sigh, he added, "We… we're in Alfred's house. And he just lost his fiancé… it… just wouldn't be right…"

Francis paused for a moment, but gave a hum in understanding. He gave a quick, chaste peck to Matthew's lips, then backed away. "I understand." He returned the cold pack to him, a small, sad smile on his face. "It's just now that this has happened… I am worried now that the feelings I have for both of you might go unknown." His eyes fell to the floor, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur. "I… I just have to wonder. Did Arthur know that I cared about him? We fought so much and so often, and we've said and done such cruel things to each other. But I always meant it in jest. I never truly meant to hurt him." He paused, his tired blue eyes turning glossy with tears, making Matthew's stomach twist with sadness. "But how do I know he knew that? What if he thought I hated him? Did he…?"

His worries were cut off as Matthew dropped the cold pack and quickly embraced him, holding him close. "It's alright, Francis," he murmured into his hair, his hands firmly but gently rubbing circles into his back comfortingly. "I know that he cared for you too. You've had your disagreements, but we all have. No matter what happens, we'll always be family." He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, feeling the burning of tears in his own eyes. "We'll… a-always be there for each other. I promise."

The two stood there for a few moments, mourning together. Francis returned the embrace, letting his freshest tears fall while they just held each other close. Standing there, they made promises that they wholeheartedly intended to keep. To protect each other, to do everything they could to make sure that they never lost a member of their family again. Slowly, the tears began to cease, and their heads cleared as they drew in deep breaths to calm themselves. Matthew withdrew his arms, settling for taking Francis's in his own. "Alfred will want to see you," he said, leading them towards the stairs.

The two stayed quiet as they journeyed upstairs, Francis seemingly able to feel Matthew's apprehension as he gently squeezed his hand. Matthew nibbled on his lower lip, watching his feet as he ascended up the steps. He didn't know how long he had been asleep, and hoped that Alfred was more in his right mind. He didn't blame him for being so traumatized—he'd lost his fiancé, and after a fight no less—but seeing his brother like this truly terrified him.

They had reached the top of the stairs, but Matthew found himself unable to move as Francis stood still while holding his hand. "W-what's wrong?" he asked, peering back behind him. He wondered if Francis was also nervous.

However, when he turned, he saw Francis staring at him sternly. "You're shaking."

Matthew stared at him for a moment, not quite understanding what he was saying. He looked down at his hands and saw that he was indeed shivering. He gave a whimper, feeling disgusted at himself for being so afraid of his own brother. "I…" He pursed his lips, trying to still his quivering. "Alfred needs me. I'm just… just nervous. I, I mean, he's just scared. And h-he hurts. And I can't just be a c-coward and leave him." He clutched Francis's hand in his own, feeling his breath hitch. "I… I've never seen him this bad, Francis. And I'm just s-scared I'm going to make it worse. I just…"

"Shh," Francis cooed, brushing his fingers across his face gently. "You are right. Alfred needs you, _Matthieu_. And you cannot make things worse. With enough time and care, I am sure that—"

Francis's word cut off as a click could be heard, and both swiveled their heads to see the door to the bedroom opening. They were utterly silent as slowly, Alfred exited the room, half of his body in view from the door. He was still in what Matthew had hastily dressed him in—an old T-shirt and boxer shorts—with his hair a complete mess, and his usually tan skin pale. Or at least what could be seen of his skin. His arms from under the sleeves of his shirt down to his wrists and wrapped around his palms were white bandages. In places, the bandages were stained off-white with antibiotic that had seeped through them. And in others, they had been died pink or red with blood that had come from wounds that were still refusing to close properly.

While his physical condition looked horrible, both in the hall were chilled when the American turned to also gaze at them. His eyes, normally so vibrant and full of vigor, were dull and flat; empty and cold. If he hadn't been standing directly in front of them, or if they hadn't seen the slight movement of his chest proving that he was breathing, both would have thought that he was dead. These were not the eyes of a person who was so young, strong and hopeful. They were the eyes of a person who had lost everything. The eyes of a person who wished that they were already dead.

"…Al?"

x-x-x-x-x

He felt warm.

His body was wrapped in warmth, and everything felt light and beautiful. Alfred looked around and found himself in a field covered with vibrant green waves of grass that shone and sparkled in the sunlight pouring down from the crystal clear sky. There were flowers around him that shivered in the breeze, their colors bright and shimmering. It was peacefully quiet, the sounds of birds chirping soft, the leaves rustling gently in the trees. Everything was serene, gorgeous, and perfect.

But there was one thing that Alfred saw that made this picturesque scene dull seem in comparison. Something that made his heart soar just from the thought of it.

Arthur.

He stood in the shade of some nearby trees, his blond hair also being gently tousled by the breeze passing them by. There was about ten feet between them, but even from this distance, Alfred could not believe the green of his eyes. Their pure green made the lively blades of grass look dry and dismal. His blond hair made the sun look overcast, and his smooth, pale skin made marble look rough and grimy. He was the most beautiful thing Alfred had ever seen—that he would _ever_ see.

As he stood there, Arthur smiled, reaching his hand out and curling a finger towards himself. Understanding the message, Alfred rushed forward, a laugh rushing past his lips. "Artie!" he called, feeling weightless as he wrapped his arms around the Brit, holding him close. "I missed you! Where've you been?"

He heard Arthur chuckle, his own arms gently rubbing his back. "I ran into some trouble," he answered, resting his head against the crook of the American's neck. "And I'm afraid that I'll have to be leaving again soon."

Still holding him by the shoulders, Alfred stepped back, looking down at him. A small smile was still on his lips, but a somber expression had trickled into his features. "For how long?" he asked, giving a small squeeze to his shoulders. "I mean… I just got you back. I don't want to wait a lot longer, hon. Why can't you stay?"

His soaring heart came back to earth as tears formed in Arthur's eyes. "I'm afraid my time's up, love." His pale, slender hand traced over Alfred's cheek, his smile quivering. "I wish I could stay with you. I wish I could hold you and never let you go."

Heart beating painfully, Alfred put his own hand over Arthur's, not daring to let his eyes leave the Brit's emerald ones. "You can," he said desperately. "Just… you don't have to leave. Please." He gripped his hand harder, pulled him closer. "Please, don't leave me again."

Arthur placed a gentle kiss on Alfred's lips, laying his other hand on his chest, just over his heart. "I'll never leave you, dearest," he whispered, brushing a thumb across tears that Alfred hadn't realized had escaped his own eyes. "I'll always be with you. Perhaps not physically, but love is more than that." His eyes crinkled with a smile, a small tear escaping as it rolled down his cheek. "I'll always be in your heart. You'll always have mine. And no one can take that away from you."

At first, Alfred had thought it had been a trick of the light. But to his horror, he realized that right before his eyes, Arthur was slowly fading away. "No!" he cried, holding on to him, trying to keep him there with him. "Arthur! No! Please, I love you! Don't go!"

Even as he tried, his felt Arthur's hand slowly disappear in his grasp. "I'll never leave you," he said again, his green eyes fading from existence. "We'll see each other again, love. Don't lose hope."

All that was left was a faint outline, Arthur almost invisible. A final smile crossed his lips as he whispered, "I love you. Always."

Alfred blinked. And Arthur was gone.

Even as sunshine continued to fall, the breeze continued, and the beauty still surrounded him, it didn't matter.

All he felt was cold.

x-x-x-x-x

Alfred opened his eyes and saw the ceiling of his bedroom. Just a few moments ago, he had felt light, almost weightless. But now he felt extremely heavy and stiff. He tried to move his arms, but gave a small cry as pain shot from his wrist all the way up to his shoulders. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to move his arms and shove the blankets off of himself. As he was able to release his arms from the confines of the sheets, he stared at his arms as confusion washed over him. His arms were covered in white medical bandages. He tried to remember what had happened, but everything was so hazy that he couldn't remember details. He paused to let himself rest, his arms throbbing from movement. What had happened? Why was he hurt?

He felt like an anvil was dropped on his chest.

Arthur was dead.

Oh God, Arthur was dead.

The dream he had just had rushed through his head again, his lungs abruptly forgetting how to inhale oxygen. Arthur had disappeared—had left him. He felt so empty now, as if he was just a hollow husk with nothing inside of him. No heart, no soul. Empty. He was absolutely nothing without Arthur.

Ignoring the pain, he pushed himself up, muffling his complaints as his body begged for him to just lie back down. But he couldn't just sit there anymore. He needed to do something. He had to be able to do something to make everything better. Arthur was a nation—he was England; the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. He couldn't have died. Nations almost never died. It didn't make sense. There had to be something that he could do to make everything right again.

Not caring about how much he hurt and how much he wanted to just lie down on the floor and slowly disappear, he continued forward and opened his door.

He turned into the hallway, but stopped immediately.

Also in his hallway stood Matthew and Francis. They looked just as surprised to see him in the hallway with them. For a moment, the sight didn't compute. Why were they in his house? Why weren't they with Arthur? Why weren't they doing something to try and fix things? It took a few seconds for him to realize that Matthew had said his name. He opened his mouth to respond, but almost choked as he coughed, his throat dry and hoarse. "Ah… M-Mattie?" he whispered back, almost jumping from his own voice. Was this really his voice? This didn't sound like him. He was too quiet, too weak sounding. "And… and Francis? What… why are you…"

For some reason, Matthew looked nervous—almost frightened. "Al, why are you up?" he asked, beginning to carefully walk up to him. As he got closer, Alfred could see that he was only continuing to only get more afraid. "You should be resting. You're hurt, remember?"

Once again, it took much longer for words to process in his mind and Alfred stood there, trying to remember just what the words meant. He was hurt? He remembered his arms, though he didn't quite remember how he had gotten hurt. Had he broken something and accidentally hurt himself? Everything was still so blank and still so confusing.

Then, as Matthew got ever closer, he felt his eyes suddenly widen. He saw his brother's swollen and bruised face "Matt…" he murmured, his head spinning as he wracked his head for the memories that were hiding from him. "Mattie, y-your face…"

Matthew froze, looking horrified as he held a hand to his own face as if trying to hide it. He bit his lip worriedly, his eyes shooting back and forth, unable to make eye contact. "I… it's nothing. Doesn't even hurt…"

Then, it was as if someone had hit a switch as the memories finally came flooding back.

_Alfred was yelling and screaming as he thrashed around, his brother looking nervous as he tried to hold him down. "Al!" he barked, another scream escaping his throat as more rubbing alcohol entered his wounds. "Calm down! You're just hurting yourself!"_

"_Let me!" he screamed back, trying to pull his arm back. "Dammit, Matt! Let me hurt!" He didn't want his brother to take care of him. He just wanted to hurt and bleed out. He wanted this—needed this—deserved this. He had to hurt for what he'd done to Arthur._

"_I'm not going to let you kill yourself!" Matthew spat back, grabbing bandages with a free hand. "I don't care if you think it's your fault, because it's not! Now just hold—"_

"_I made him leave!" Alfred cried, still desperately trying to get his arm away from his brother, trying to get away from him so he could suffer in peace. "It's my fault! I killed him! Just hate me! Let me die! I couldn't save him, so let me die!"_

"_No!" Matthew hissed back, wrapping bandages over his now treated cuts—cuts he'd given to himself. "I'm not going to let you die! You don't deserve this! And if Arthur were here to see this—"_

"_Shut up!" Alfred screamed back, writhing as he tried to escape. "He's not here, Mattie! He's not Goddamn here! He's not here because of me!"_

"_No, you shut up!" Matthew growled, continuing to wrap his arm. "You didn't kill him! And if Arthur were to see you like this…" He paused angrily, finishing wrapping his arm. "Arthur wouldn't want this! Do you really think—"_

_However, Matthew had made the mistake of letting go of Alfred's arm. Before he could finish his sentence, Alfred screamed, "You don't know anything!" as he lashed out, hitting the side of Matthew's head. A small cry escaped his brother as he fell over, his glasses flying off and skidding across the tiled floor. A loud thump echoed in the room, Matthew suddenly very still. For only a moment, Alfred felt pride in proving his brother wrong, in showing him how he didn't understand. But then as the seconds ticked by and Matthew didn't move, he became sick. What had he just done? Giving a small whimper, he scuttled over to his brother, shaking him. "M-Mattie?" he said, trying to wake him up. "Matt! Mattie!"_

_A small groan came from his brother, his shoulders trembling. Alfred wanted to throw up from his self-hatred. First he'd hurt Arthur. Now he'd done this. He grabbed Matthew by the shoulders and pulled him up so he was sitting. Matt still seemed dazed, his dark blue eyes hooded and spinning. But once his vision seemed to straighten out, he tensed up and tried to shield himself weakly with his hands. "I, I'm sorry," Mattie slurred, ducking his head as he pressed his chin against his chest. "P-please. I'm s-sorry. Don't hit me…"_

_He shuddered again as Alfred wrapped his arms around him, a squeak escaping him. But Alfred just held him, shaking as he sobbed. "I'm so sorry!" he wailed into shoulder, gasping for breath. "Please, I'm sorry, Mattie. I'm so disgusting, I'm so sorry."_

_Matthew was still for quite a while not making a single movement. But as Alfred continued to sob, he slowly wrapped his arms around his crushed brother. "It's okay, Alfie. It's okay."_

_Feeling more tired than ever, Alfred let him go and laid himself back on the floor, placing his untreated arm out. Matthew stared at him for a moment as if confused, but Alfred just jerked his head to tell him he could go ahead. Slowly, carefully, Matthew, grabbed the alcohol and bandages again as he shuffled over to him. Alfred just closed his eyes and stayed quiet as the alcohol continued to sting._

_The pain began to dull, and he faded off to sleep until he later woke up in his bed._

Alfred's head spun as everything came back to him, stumbling backwards until he felt his back hit the wall behind him. He looked back down at his bandaged arms as he wrapped them around himself to try and stop his shaking. He'd hurt his own brother; had made his brother scared of him. Yet somehow he had still been kind enough to bandage him. He didn't know why he would do that for him, why he would still do such things for him when all he deserved was to be thrown into a ditch somewhere and die. "I hurt you," he choked, feeling himself quake with self-disgust.

He heard Matthew walk closer to him, though he still kept his distance. "You didn't mean to," he said quietly, sounding like he was also trying to keep himself from breaking. "I know you didn't."

A whimper escaped him as he clenched his eyes shut. "I hurt you," he repeated, his voice and body quivering. "I… God damn it, I hurt you. F-first I killed Artie. Now I'm—"

"_Stop it_!" Alfred jumped as Matthew finally closed the distance between them as he grabbed him by the shoulders. "Just stop it! You didn't do this! Stop blaming yourself, for the love of God!"

Alfred stared at him, trying to figure out how anyone could still care for him after what he had done. Why didn't Matthew hate him? Why did he still care for him when he didn't deserve such kindness? "I told him to leave," he whimpered, his voice still far too quiet, still sounding much too unfamiliar to his own ears. "I told him I hated him, Mattie. And he left. He left because of me. He was at his house _because of me_!" The tears he'd been trying to hold back finally fell from his eyes, his shoulders shaking beneath the Canadian's grip. "I k-killed him. It was me." He lowered his head, his face concealed by his dark blond hair. "Please. Please just hate me. Why can't you hate me?"

"It's not your fault."

Having almost forgotten he was there, Alfred raised his head from hearing Francis's voice. Now up close, he could see that Francis was also in a poor condition. "Alfred. It's not your fault." His expression made it impossible for Alfred to speak. "I was at home, and Arthur called me. He was already in a horrible state when he called me. He couldn't breathe. He was…" Francis pursed his lips, his hands shaking as he tried to speak. "He was choking. Choking on his own blood. I left my house immediately, but by the time I got there…" His voice faded off again as he wiped at his eyes. "Alfred, you did not even know. You did not know what had happened. You couldn't have done anything. As for me…" His voice hitched, and he let his back rest against the opposite wall, trying to keep his tears contained. He took a shuddering breath, and continued, "A-as for me… I very well could have done something to help him. But I didn't get there in time. I'm the one who let _Angelterre_ die."

Everyone was silent, the new information running though Alfred's head. He still felt horribly at fault, and still hated himself. But he felt—relieved wasn't the right word. But he felt that he could maybe one day come to forgive himself. He still felt horribly at fault, but the fault that wasn't his was lifted off of him.

He was broken out of his thoughts when Matthew growled, "Stop it, both of you!" The two of them stared at him for a moment, as if unsure what he was talking about. "Neither of you killed him," he said, releasing Alfred's shoulders and backing away so he could face the both of them as he spoke. "Neither of you went there and killed him. Neither of you wanted him to die! Francis, you did what you could, and Alfred, I know if you'd known what would happen, you would have never let Arthur leave your sight. But you didn't. There's nothing you could have done then, and there's nothing we can do now. But…" He paused, clenching his fists and biting his lower lip. "But I'm not gonna let our family fall apart! I'm not going to let either of you fall away or hurt yourself ever again! I won't take it!"

Silence echoed through the house, Matthew rubbing at his eyes as he warded off his own tears. Alfred stared it him for a few moments, wanting to try to comfort him. But before he could think of something to do, Francis spoke. "Is that what happened, Alfred? You hurt yourself?"

Alfred stood still for a moment, looking at Francis as he tried to figure out an answer. He let his head droop, peering at the floor. "I… I cut myself," he murmured, half hiding his arms behind his sides, unsure what to do with them. He wanted to hide them, wanted to hide the evidence, but it hurt to move them too much as he let them stay in view. "I… I thought it was all my fault. And I hated myself and wanted—needed—to punish myself. So… I didn't…"

"You honestly think that Arthur would want you to harm yourself?"

Alfred pursed his quivering lips, staring down at the floor, not daring to make eye contact. "I… I know it was stupid. But… I hate myself, okay? I th-thought that—"

"You thought that if you hurt yourself, it'd bring him back?"

His heart raced in his chest, hearing Francis's voice only get closer to him and more upset. He felt like he was a child again and had gotten himself in trouble. But this was worse than anything he had done when he was a small child. He'd finally gone too far, had done something that could never be fixed no matter how many times he apologized. "N-no," he answered, cringing as he heard his voice crack. "No, I… I didn't know what else to do. I… I just…" His chest shook with a sob as he clenched his fists, ignoring the searing pain in his wounds. "I've always tried to be a hero. I always try to help people, try to keep them safe. I've always wanted to keep everyone safe. But I make one stupid decision, one single mistake, and now Arthur…" His knees gave out below him as he slid down the wall, wrapping his arms around himself. "I… I don't even remember what we fought about. I don't know why I was so angry at him. I don't…" His voice cut off as sobs took him over, burying his face against his knees, feeling tears pour down his face. He hated himself so much, hated everything about himself. He'd caused this pain in his family; he'd made their whole world disintegrate.

He'd ruined everything.

Alfred flinched as he felt a hand rest on his head. He prepared himself to get grabbed by the hair, to get hit, to be attacked and punished for what he had done. But instead, the hand gently stroked his hair, Alfred feeling Francis lower himself down next to him. He still didn't dare look up, not feeling he deserved eye contact. "Alfred," Francis said softly, still lightly petting his head. "Have you ever thought about how much both I and _Matthieu _care about you? Did you think that if you died, we would be happy—that it would make Arthur's death easier on us?"

The words swirled around in his mind, making Alfred's head spin. When he had found out Arthur was dead, he had wanted to make himself hurt for what he had done. But as he had cut himself, as he had made himself bleed, he had not once thought about what it could do to his family. He gave a whimper, hiding his face further. "I… I didn't…" He took in a shuddering breath, feeling his shoulders quake as he did so. "I… you'd be better off without me anyway, right? I annoy everyone, and people don't like me. I—"

His voice cut off with a sudden squeak as the hand atop his head moved to his chin and roughly pulled his head up to look Francis directly in the eyes. The Frenchman's blue eyes were fierce, steadfastly looking into his. "Alfred Freeman Jones," he said sharply, his eyes slitting. "If you think that, then you know absolutely nothing. Do you know how many people you have helped? How many people depend on you? Do you know how many people truly care for you and love you?" He took a pause as he let the words hang in the air, his eyes slowly softening. Francis's grip loosening on his chin, eventually letting go as his hand fell to his lap. "I honestly do not know what I would have done if you had died. To have two of the people I care so deeply about die in one day—to have to see two dead bodies of the people I love. I very well might have joined you two. Just so that we could be together." His voice faded off as he brought a hand up to his face, covering his eyes.

Alfred sat there, everything seeming to spin. He hadn't ever thought that him dying could cause such pain. He couldn't comprehend it. He was about to shamefully hide his face again as he felt another hand lie on his shoulder. Slowly, Matthew also lowered to his knees, one hand on Alfred's shoulder, the other on Francis's. His grip tightened gently, looking from one to the other. "We need each other," he murmured softly, pulling them closer together. "If one gets hurt, we all hurt. We're a family—what happens to one happens to another." He paused, looking down at the floor as his lids fluttered against tears. "Let's make a promise," he said, raising his head as his voice became stronger. "All of us. Let's promise that, no matter what happens—whether an economic depression, natural disaster, or something as little as a bad day—let's promise that we'll always be there for each other, always there to protect and help." As Alfred looked at his brother, he couldn't remember another time when he had looked as strong or as determined. He meant what he was saying with every fiber of his being. "Let's make sure that nothing like this ever happens again. That we'll always be together. Promise?"

Both Francis and Alfred stared at Matthew, silence prevailing for a few moments. Then, giving a weak smile, Francis nodded. "Promise," he answered, tiredly placing his forehead against the Canadian's shoulder. Matthew welcomed it, silently wrapping an arm comfortingly around his shoulder.

For a few moments more, Alfred remained quiet, looking down at his hands. He could see parts of cuts peeking out from the bandages, could see the redness of irritation from the wounds. As he stared at them, he got the mental image of Matthew with these wounds, or Francis harming himself. The image made him sick, made him want to protect them from ever doing such a thing. He glared down at his wounds, knowing that he could never take them back.

But he could stop others from making his stupid mistakes.

Finding his voice again, he squared his shoulders as he looked Matthew in the eyes. "I promise," he vowed. He felt more at ease as he finally recognized his own voice, feeling just a bit of strength.

Returning to him.

Things were never going to be the same; and some things could never be fixed.

But he was going to do all he could to make sure that things could never get worse for his family.

x-x-x-x-x

Glad to finally have this chapter done. Everything's been kind of against me finishing it. Sorry about the delay, but I hope that you still enjoyed it!

Thanks for reading! Please review!


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